


Something is Waiting in the Dark

by maryjo24



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryjo24/pseuds/maryjo24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a quick check on Sam, just completing his first year at Stanford. Instead, Dean finds his brother missing and apparently on a hunt. Sam was supposed to be out of the <i>family business</i>, but that's easier said than done if your last name is Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something is Waiting in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn-reversebang based on shayasar’s wonderfully creepy art prompt located [HERE](http://shayasar.livejournal.com/109959.html). Head over there and let her know what a great piece she created!
> 
> Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are not mine, I’m just borrowing the toys and playing in the sandbox.

**~May 29th, 2002~**

“C’mon, guys – I’m not chickenin’ out, but that house is just freaking weird.”

“Baak, baak, baak!” The taunts continued and the boy turned timidly back, the dark mansion looming in front of him.

“Prove it! Just go in and walk through to the back. We’ll be waiting outside the kitchen door.”

Laughing and jeering, the others ran though the tall weeds, disappearing around the side of the house and leaving the first boy trudging up to the double front doors. The years had not been kind to the once stately manor. Shutters hung ramshackle from their hinges, the framing worn, while two-by- fours criss-crossed panes of cracked glass in the window casings. At one point, the building must have been painted a cheery yellow, but now putrid flakes of dirty beige pealed from the walls dropping to a coagulated mass of dirty snow. Desolation hung heavy in the air and if the boy had been more attuned, he’d have felt an underlying malevolence that had no place in the earthly realm. As is, he felt that something wasn’t right but wrote it off to the sense of desertion that pervaded the property.

Cautiously, he moved up the steps of the front patio, cringing with every creek that his converse-clad feet evoked from the aged wood. Walking around a large gaping hole, he pressed on to the left front door, praying for it to be locked and cursing when it wasn’t. In fact, the door gave way far too easily as it fell open at his touch, at once inviting but threatening in an odd dichotomy. Leaning forward, not daring to cross the threshold quite yet, he peered through the opening where hazy shafts of light peeked around the wood planks covering the dingy window glass, dimly lighting a large room. Dust particles danced in the light before disappearing in dark corners. The boy breathed in deeply and took first one step then another into the house.

“Hey chicken-shit, where are you!”

The boy started at the muffled yell, echoing from the depths of the manor, bumping into the door and slamming it shut in his wake. The sound reverberated loudly around the large room, and dirt and dust swirled in the air currents, settling long before he began to move again. Trying to get his racing heart under control, he glanced around the room and quickly spotted an open hallway across its depth. _That had to lead to the kitchen and the back door_ was his fervent hope. One last fortifying breath and he started to run towards what he hoped would be his salvation.

Suddenly, he heard a shriek and next he was flying back towards the front doors. His breath fogged warm as the temperature of the air around dropped to near freezing around him. From a staircase off towards his left, a hazy cloud descended from the upper level. The boy scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide. Furtively he shifted his eyes towards the hallway and then back to stairs. His heart pounding, he reached behind and tried the door handle. When it didn’t budge in his desperate grasp, he screamed and darted past the stairs, the light across the hallway his destination. The hazy figure screeched as he flew by it, the kitchen now visible, the back door beckoning, he was close, his hand reaching out, when suddenly another door flew open off to his side. The boy screamed as he felt something grab his ankle and he stumbled to fall face first. His hands scraped the dusty boards as he was dragged back, whimpering, through the darkness beyond the open door.

**~June 12th, 2002~**

Bored, Dean dug through the bag of food supplies for something to eat. In the hours that he’d been waiting, he’d pretty much consumed everything edible, and still no sign of Sammy. The way his luck was running this time around, he’d take off on a dinner run and Sam would make an appearance while he was gone. He’d gotten lucky on his previous check-ins, catching Sam either leaving for classes or coming back fairly soon after taking up a strategic position but it was looking like this time, he’d have to take a more active and exposed role in his stake-out. He hoped Sam wouldn’t be too pissed-off. Looking over Sam’s spring schedule, he picked Ancient History as his subject, grabbed a notebook, and headed over to the dorms.

It wasn’t long before the building’s door swung open and he grabbed it, grinning at the co-eds who giggled when he sketched an exaggerated bow as they moved past him, “Ladies.” Not wasting any time, he headed up the stairs to the second floor, locating room 218 quickly. Steeling himself for the inevitable bitch-out forthcoming, he knocked and breathed a sigh of relief at the muffled reply from within. Pasting a friendly smile on his face, he wondered if Sam would believe that he just happened to be in the area as the door opened to reveal a barely legal kid, too short to be his too tall brother, and dressed in some sort of uniform with a nametag identifying him as “Paul”.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, I’m looking for Sam?”

“Not in, dude.”

“Oh? Sorry, I thought he said to meet him at his room. We were going to go over some notes for Brandon’s History final?” Dean raised the spiral notebook as confirmation, smiling hopefully.

“You’re a little late dude. He took it already.”

“He took it already? But finals aren’t until next week.”

“Sorry dude, guess he didn’t let you know. Said some sort of family business came up so he got all his stuff out of the way last week and took off.” Dude guy shrugged in apology.

Dean felt a prickle of apprehension, “Is that exactly what he said, _family business_? When’d he take off?”

Dude guy looked at Dean strangely, “Yeah, family business was what he said. Took off a few days ago, packed that duffel of his and said he’d be gone for a few. Huh, guess he expected to be back sooner.”

“So he’s late back and you didn’t think to mention it to anyone?” Dean growled, his worry overriding logic, and the affable persona he was trying to project.

“Whoa!” Paul, the dude guy, raised his arms and gulped nervously, “Not his keeper, dude, just his roommate, the guy pretty much keeps to himself. ‘sides, he’s with family, right?”

“Yeah, right, with family. Sorry, didn’t mean to be a prick.” Dean smiled his best ‘Aw, shucks’ apology, “Just, he was gonna help me out with Brandon’s class. I’m pretty much flunking out. Did he leave me any notes or anything?”

“That’s rough, dude. Sorry, he didn’t say anything about it and I’ve gotta head out to work. Don’t know what to tell ya?” Paul stared pointedly at Dean, moving to close the door.

“No problem, thanks anyway.” Dean smiled as he backed away, and then turned and started walking back down the hallway. As soon as he heard the door close, he glanced back over his shoulder, and seeing no potential witnesses, ducked into the bathroom he’d scouted on his way in. Cracking the door open, he waited and was rewarded just a few minutes later, as Paul came out of the room, locked the door, and walked past Dean’s hiding place and down the stairs. Anxiously, Dean waited a few more minutes before he left the bathroom and moved back to Sammy’s room. Looking both ways to confirm that the hallway remained deserted, he pulled out his kit and knelt in front of the door. In short order, he had the lock picked and slid into the room, shutting the door behind him.

He couldn’t help but snort as he glanced around the room and easily picked out Sammy’s side. He was hardly the neat-nik his anal retentive brother was, but compared to Paul, the dude guy, he was practically Martha Stewart. The room itself was tiny, barely fitting two each of beds, dressers, and desks but the DMZ was clear so Dean cautiously stepped over the litter of clothes and books to the side of the room that was neat as a pin. Smiling fondly as he took in that halves’ only wall decoration, a poster of ACDC’s Highway to Hell album cover, he poked through the papers stacked neatly on the desk. Nothing seemed to stand out from what appeared to be class notes, assignments, and papers. So he moved on to the dresser where a few more books and papers were stacked. One piece caught his eye, Sam’s familiar doodles spotting the paper. _Yahtzee_ he thought as mixed in amongst the scribbles were familiar words, some circled and question-marked while others were scratched out. Looked like Sammy had run through the entire gamut of supernatural lore, listing even such myths as vampires and tooth fairies. _Sammy, what the fuck are you doing?_ he thought as he folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket. A couple of folded newspapers from that stack joined his notebook, but nothing else in the room seemed to offer any clues to the hunt that Sam might have found.

**

Dean threw his phone down in disgust as yet another call to Sam went straight to voicemail. After hours of pouring over Sam’s cryptic notes and scouring through the newspapers, nothing had stood out as any more a clue to Sam’s thought processes than anything else. 

“Numbers, Sammy, would it have killed you to leave some freaking coordinates?” He mumbled as he scanned his brother’s scribbles.

Dean sighed as he continued flipping through the week-old newspaper, when his eyes were drawn to a picture in the _Local Living_ section of a group of children standing under a colorful hand-painted sign with the words “Almaden JH Summer Carnival – June 15th”. But what had captured his attention was that the joy that should have lit up their faces in anticipation of such a joyful event was absent, and as he scanned the words beneath the article he realized why. The carnival had been organized as a fund-raiser for the establishment of a reward fund for information on the disappearance of 14 year-old James Halloran. The accompanying article was brief, stating the times for the carnival and providing information for those who wished to privately donate. The final sentence referenced the section and page number for the full story of the boy’s disappearance. Flipping through the paper, Dean felt a twinge of hope when he found that of that section, an entire type sheet was missing – the one that the referenced page would have been printed on.

_Sammy, I’m on my way. Almaden, here I come_

**

Dean continued to wander around the carnival. The stiff collar of his shirt stuck to the sweat of his neck and he once again regretted his choice of cover. Interviews with a few teachers and the school vice principal had revealed little that he hadn’t already guessed. _The boy was a good kid_ and _He was very responsible, from a good home, he couldn’t be a runaway_ were constant refrains. At least he’d confirmed that Almaden had been Sam’s original destination, as when he asked if there’d been anyone new hanging around, a few people remembered a young college boy who’d said he was researching regional legends and asking strange questions. But when his interest in the activities of the ‘young researcher’ was met with suspicion, he decided to pursue that lead at the local library.

As Dean headed towards the parking lot, ready to call the carnival a bust beyond now knowing that whatever Sam was after had something to do with Almaden and the missing boy, a group of boys caught his attention. Unlike most the other carnival attendees, they didn’t seem to be trying to enjoy the various activities that dotted the park grounds. Instead, they hung near the entrance, hands in their pockets, their eyes alternating between longing looks at the cheerfully decorated booths and downcast expressions. Switching direction, Dean moved towards them.

“You guys don’t look like you’re having a good time.”

The boys startled at Dean’s approach, and poised to scatter.

“Whoa, just making conversation. You gotta admit though, seems like this kind of thing be a great way to spend the afternoon. But you guys are standing here looking like someone told you Christmas was canceled or something.”

“No sir, mister, we didn’t do anything!” The eldest piped up after sharing quick looks with his friends.

“Yeah, wasn’t our fault!” The youngest of the group volunteered, his mouth barely closing before his friends were shoving him back with muffled instructions to keep his mouth shut.

“Didn’t say you did, though now you got me curious.” He pulled his fake badge from his breast pocket and flashed it for the boys, “Detective Petty, Palo Alto Police Department. Looking into the disappearance of a college kid from up North. Caught wind of the Halloran boy’s disappearance, thought I’d check it out, see if the cases might be related. You guys know James Halloran?”

“He goes to our school but we don’t know him that well.” The eldest spoke for the group, shuffling his feet, his desire to flee obvious.

“That so,” Dean fixed a stern gaze on the youngest, “What about you, James a friend of yours?”

The boy squirmed under Dean’s intent gaze then crumbled, “We didn’t make him or nothing!”

“Shut up, Benjy!”

“Well we didn’t, Kris! Honest, Sir, we just thought he chickened-out and went home. But when he didn’t come to school the next day -”

Kris cut-off his friend, “Just because he was gone the next day doesn’t mean we had anything to do with it. It was just a dare, and we waited a long time for him. And when he didn’t come out, we looked for him.”

“I’m sure you guys did, Kris. It was just some fun and games right?” Dean got the boy to nod in agreement before he continued, “So tell me more about this dare.”

**

The old Henshaw House lorded over the small clearing as Dean guided his baby over the rough dirt road up was must have been the house’s original driveway. He knew it wasn’t the brightest idea to leap before he looked but if there was any chance that Sam was there and needed his help, he figured the research could wait. Coming around a curve and catching sight of a dusty blue Toyota Corolla reaffirmed his instincts. Odds were that his brother was somewhere around or in the house.

Pulling up alongside the Corolla, he got out and peered in its window, not surprised that the car was unoccupied. The unlocked door opened easily and the remnants of a Taco Bell meal were balled up in the takeout bag. A sense of nostalgia welled up at the sight of that as he imagined his brother farting up a storm of nastiness in his trip up to the Henshaw place. Dropping the bag on the floor, Dean leafed through a notebook that had been left on the passenger seat, his brother’s hand evident on the pages, he found the missing newspaper sheet and any last hope that he might have had that Sam was just taking a summer walk-about disappeared alongside the settling dirt clouds tossed up by the Impala’s tires. Keeping the notebook, he closed car door and turned to the house.

Not quite of mansion proportions, the house was still huge, even by modern day standards. In its day, it must have been quite a sight and testament to wealth and power. But whatever its affluent history, time had beat it down, and the shell of what it once was loomed menacing before him. But Sam was in there, he had to be, so swallowing down his trepidation, Dean tossed the notebook through the Impala’s open window, grabbed his salt-loaded shotgun, and marched up the path to the double front doors.

Based on what the boys had told him, he’d expected the door to open easily for him. But he hadn’t expected to see the damage done to the door’s bolt. Tommy had said that the door wasn’t locked for them but here was clear evidence that it had been forced. Using the shotgun, he pushed the door open further and stepped through the threshold. Sunrays lay in shimmering lines along the dusty floor, dust that looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in years, maybe decades. The huge room that spread before him was otherwise barren, devoid of any sign of occupation. An abandoned house like this seemed like the perfect haven for kids looking for a place to party or for homeless wanderers looking for a roof over their heads for a night or two, even as out of the way as it was. 

As Dean pondered the oddness of that, it occurred to him that it was almost as if he were in a world all alone. Other than the light shining in from outside, there was nothing to indicate that the world outside existed, no sounds nor motion, nothing. It was weighing on him, as he tried to fill the void, a sense of dread began to well in. Sweeping his eyes around the room, its walls, the ceiling and finally the floor, it occurred to him that also missing were any signs of footprints in the thick layers of dust. He was certain that James Halloran had attempted to complete the dare, and although it had been a few weeks since his disappearance, there still should have been something. And he knew Sam would have walked this floor even more recently, his footprints would only have been days old, not enough time to have disappeared so completely. Yet there were no breaks in the dust patterns, no pathway to show him which way to go. And as that sense of dread surrounded him, he began to feel dirty, his stomach started clench, nausea rising up his gorge. Still, he had to go on, Sammy and James were somewhere in this house, he knew it.

Cautiously, he crept forward, pulling a flashlight out with his left hand, his right at ready on the trigger guard of the shotgun. Sweeping the flashlight’s beacon across the room and every corner, he strained against an intense desire to flee as he pushed forward. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he flipped the light to his left, sensing something out of the corner of his eye. But there was nothing. To the right he turned the flashlight and nothing. He continued to cross the room, swinging the flashlight in a broad back and forth motion.

Fighting back the rising nausea and the pull of escape through the door he’d entered, it was almost a relief to finally hear something from the dark second floor. At first, it was creaks and clicks, as if the house was shifting. Then another sound that likely would have anyone else lacking a hunter’s experience racing for the exits, and still nearly drove Dean to the ground, giggled down the winding staircase. As Dean moved closer, the sounds became more distinct, childish whispers and low laughter. Raising the shotgun to ready Dean determinedly climbed the stairs even as common sense argued against it. This was more than a haunting. Sam could have handled a simple ghost salt and burn; that he hadn’t, that he was missing, that told Dean the smartest course of action was to leave, research, and then come back once he knew what he was dealing with. But the big brother in him demanded that he find Sammy and he could be just up those stairs.

When Dean stepped off the last stair onto the second floor landing, all sound abruptly stopped and the house once again seemed to be in a void. Dean held onto the banister, struggling to control demands on his lunch and a near overwhelming desire to run. With Sam at the forefront of his thoughts, Dean pushed forward down the long dark hallway. No sunlight made its way to this level so Dean had to rely on the sweeping pattern of the flashlight to illuminate his way. On either side, doors stood closed but none were locked as each swung open when he turned the knobs and pushed. As he made his way down the hall, each room appeared empty, in the same state as the large room downstairs, barren and layered in dust. Nothing else, no missing child, and no missing Sam.

At the last door, he took a deep breath, hesitating as the plot of every horror and psycho killer movie he’d seen came to mind. _Always, the last one, lull the audience into thinking everything’s alright, and just as they’re breathing a sigh of relief, BAM!_.With that thought, Dean pushed the door in so hard it slammed against the opposite wall, the force reverberating through the house. As he swept his flashlight into the room, he nearly collapsed at the shock of finally seeing something, although gratefully, not the psycho he’d expected.

At one time, the room must have been the sanctuary of a child. Drawings with stick figures and simple line drawings of houses and flowers, yellowed and tattered with age, decorated the walls. In one corner, an ancient toy wagon of wood rested awkwardly on three wheels, the fourth laying flat on the ground. Against the far wall, a doll dressed in a faded flowered pinafore sat on the floor its arms and legs akimbo, but missing its head. Lettered and numbered blocks sat on one another in disorganized stacks near the center of the room. After experiencing the void in the rest of the house, Dean was relieved to see something that met his expectations of what an abandoned home might look like. But then on the other hand, it was a testimonial of just how off the house really was.

Promising himself just a quick run through the room, Dean took a step forward and heard what sounded like a whoosh of air back down the hall. All at once, the temperature dropped and Dean swiftly turned around. The sight that met his eyes forced an involuntary stutter of steps backward until his back hit the wall. And still it came at him, a cloud of grayish miasma that he could make out within the vague outline of a body. Darker tendrils oozed around where its head might be, with a huge gaping maw of dark at the center. As it flew towards him, building its speed, clawing arms reached out from the mass thinning as they shimmered and stretched closer. Scrambling to his feet, Dean swung the sawed-off up and fired off a shot to its center as he pushed away, his feet scuffing the wooden floor in a desperate attempt for traction. A gut-wrenching screech bellowed from the mass as it spread open around the wound, thankfully slowing as it began to lose form. But only for a moment as just as quickly it coalesced back, features becoming more defined, an exaggerated death mask, twisted in anger. Dean fired off one more shot before he lost his balance, not realizing how quickly he’d reached the staircase landing. Arms swinging as he tried to grab the banister, he felt like a pinball as he bounced down the stairs, desperately trying to slow his fall clawing alternately against the wall on one side and the banister risers on the other. With a grunt, he landed butt first on the first floor. Rising up on all fours, Dean scrambled backwards towards the front doors, pushing up to his feet as he kept the macabre visage in his sights. Then he was through, and falling backwards off the patio to the dirt below as the doors slammed shut decisively, the broken bolt shaking loose from the violence of it and clattering on the wooden slats.

Dean lay on the ground, gasping the air to his lungs as his heartbeat slowed back to normal. His head hurt from the fall, and the air felt too warm against his chilled skin. But he could hear the wind rustling the branches in the trees, birds chirping and squirrels chattering. He could feel the breeze as it brushed by his skin, and the heat of the sun beaming down on his face . This was the normal world, and until Dean had escaped from the house, he hadn’t realized just how out of sync the world inside the house was with the one that existed outside of it. Whatever was going on inside the old house, that made it feel so wrong, and the ghostly creature that guarded it, who or what it was, all was unlike anything that Dean had seen before. And Sammy was still missing, trapped inside that house was the only explanation Dean could come up with. He needed to know more about the Henshaw place, and maybe after completing the necessary research, he’d know how to find Sam.

**

It was late by the time Dean fishing through micro-fiche of old newspapers and town records at the local library, and his eyes and back burned from the hours spent hunched over, flipping through the articles. But the results of that was what had him headed to the local cemetery on the all-to usual dig-em-up, salt-and-burn. He knew it couldn’t be that easy but everything that he’d found pointed to angry ghost. The ghost of one Abigail Thorton, who at the tender age of 16 in 1884 had hung herself from the banister of the Henshaw House apparently despondent over the death of her younger brother, that had occurred a few months before. The house itself also had its horrific history, the body of the brother, Thomas, had been found in a creek bed not far from the house, reported in one article as “unclothed and bearing signs of heinous torture.” 

Another article had gone into significant depth about the investigation into the boy’s death, and hinting that Thomas Thorton’s murder was not the only one to have occurred in the area, listing off other recent disappearances from the local region, all boys as young as 9 to the eldest at 19. From the journalistic license the author took in describing how the investigation led to the Henshaw house, it was clear that the owner of the house, Victor Henshaw, while wealthy and well-placed in the social structure of old Almaden, was not well-loved or respected by the local populous. The manner of boy’s death was not described in depth, but the path that led the investigators to Victor Henshaw was well-documented and clear-cut. Dean could fill in the blanks and it seemed clear that Henshaw had quite probably been one sick fuck and a serial killer. No doubt that Thomas Thorton’s death was the catalyst that had galvanized a community to action, as Henshaw’s end had come for him in the night, when he’d been taken from his home, lynched, and the body set on fire. His still smoldering corpse had been found in the early hours of the next morning beneath the tree he’d been hung from, the remnants of the noose swinging from the branch above. In its final paragraph, the article described almost gleefully how the corpse was again lit up and “returned to the earth in its most basic form, ashes and dust.” Dean had to agree with the final sentiment, “May Victor Henshaw burn forever in the bowels of Hell.”

Since old Almaden had effectively and conveniently eliminated the most likely suspect for a malevolent spirit or entity, Abigail’s final resting place was the next most logical step. And it took Dean the better part of the night to locate the Thorton family plot. Abigail’s grave was the easiest to find, as even though the marker was small and poorly enscribed, the signs of a fresh excavation were clear. Dean could almost smell lighter fluid and scorched earth in the air above it. So Sammy had gotten this far at least, his investigation leading to the young Thorton girl as well. After taking care of Abilgail, he would have returned to the Henshaw place to confirm his success. But something must have gone wrong, or their conclusions were mistaken and they were dealing with something completely different.

Next to Abigail’s was Thomas’ grave. The headstone of that was much larger and more ornate, the earth below was undisturbed. Sam’s conclusions must have settled on Abigail as well, and Dean still felt that the entity he’d met in the house was the spirit or essence of the young woman. He could imagine himself in her shoes, her brother lost forever to her in the most horrific way. It seemed too simple but maybe she was trying to replace her brother and if he returned Thomas to Abigail, maybe she’d give him back Sam. Dean had Thomas’ bones excavated by the time the sun was peaking over the eastern horizon.

**

As he drove back to the Henshaw house, Dean felt fifty kinds of stupid. He had no idea what he was going to do, what he was up against, and just a bag of bones, his colt loaded with blessed silver bullets, and a salt-loaded shotgun that had already proved pretty ineffective. He was relying on instincts and feared there wasn’t much time left.

Pulling in next to Sam’s Toyota, Dean noted that although the house hadn’t changed overnight, now that he knew more of its history, its appearance took on more sinister overtones. Hoisting the backpack with young Thomas’ remains over his shoulder, Dean grabbed the portable torch and walked swiftly up to the house. The door was barely latched and pulled open easily. Knowing the layout, he pushed into the large room and quickly glanced around. As before, the room appeared undisturbed, even his footprints and the desperate path that he would have carved yesterday were gone, buried under decades of dust. This time he decided to check out the rest the first floor and began moving towards a opening across the room from where daylight beckoned, probably the kitchen area and the back door through which Jimmy Halloran would have run towards in his futile attempt to fulfill the dare.

As expected, the early morning sounds had disappeared as soon as he entered the house, and once again Dean felt the emptiness surrounding him, a clench in his gut. Carefully he crossed the room, realizing that even the sounds of his footsteps sounded deadened and far away, a fact that did little for any sense of well-being. Abigail so far was conspicuously absent, and he entered the kitchen area unhindered. This room was also empty of furnishings and only the built-in sink and ancient stove gave evidence as to its purpose. Windows lined the back wall and the morning sun shined brightly through cloudy, cracked glass. Off to one side, another room lay, probably intended to be an eating area, but like most of the house, nothing but dust occupied it. Circling back, Dean studied the door near where he’d entered the kitchen. This was one of the last areas he had to left search, and therefore, his best chance of finding Sam. Cautiously he reached out for the door handle, trying to ignore suspicious scratches in the floor before it.

But before he could open the door, a sound back in the main part of the house drew his attention and suddenly he was off his feet and flying backwards to crash into the sink. His back flamed where it struck the corner and he crumpled to the ground. Abigail was bearing down on him as he awkwardly grabbed for the torch and held the backpack in front him.

“Hold it right there sister!” He yelled, “Unless you want baby bro to go up in a poof of smoke!”

Abigail wailed and stopped dead in her tracks, shimmering and shifting in front of him, her face flaring from one horrific visage to another.

“So unless you want me to flick my Bic, how about we trade, yours for mine?” Dean shook the pack and the bones cracked loudly against each other. 

Then before his eyes, the grotesque figure seemed to shrink and solidify until a young woman floated above the ground, her eyes level with his. Dressed in a long, faded dress, dark tresses swirled around her head, and her face expressed mourning. Most vivid were the reddened marks twisting around her neck, confirming that the ghostly figure was Abigail Thorton.

Clutching the backpack in front of him as a shield, Dean inched his way up from the floor, “Okay, okay then, now what?” he murmured more to himself.

Abigail cocked her head, her gaze intent on the pack.

“Right, so I guess you show me Sammy and little Jimmy, and you get Tommy here.”

Abigail seemed to respond and began to back up, Dean followed with slow even steps. But then a loud creek cracked from the as yet unexplored door and Abigail’s eyes widened in terror as she whipped around, both of them now aware that the door was opening, revealing an unnatural darkness on the other side. Dean had just enough time to register first one then another black tendril oozing up from the darkness before Abigail darted forward, her head turning back with a pitiful look on her face before he was suddenly dragged past the growing mass coming up through the door, back out the opening and up the stairs. His feet kicked and bounced up each riser, and he had no control as he was pulled frantically by an unseen hand down the second floor hallway, to the room at the end. The door flew open just as they arrived and before he lost consciousness, he saw that the dark, dismal room he’d seen the day before was transformed. It seemed much larger, bright and cheery. Toys and books were now on the floor, shelves, tables, chairs and other pieces of furniture spread out in the room. And most amazing of all were all the children playing, talking and laughing; dozens, all around the same age. As his eyes drifted close, he caught sight of a young Sammy giggling with Jimmy as they rolled a wooden truck back and forth between them.

**

“They must be innocent.”

Dean registered the feminine voice, soft and lyrical in his mind. He felt disjointed, that he couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t see through his eyes, hear with his ears. He opened his mouth to speak, only to realize that he had none.

“I try to get them before,” the voice broke, “before he does his evil to them, performs his rituals. I bring them here, where he can’t come.”

The voice spoke with pride, “I’m strong now, I wasn’t then, but I’ve learned how to keep him from coming. But I can’t make him go away, so I wait. Watch and understand.”

Suddenly the dark was gone, and it was a bright sunny day. He was walking up a path and from behind him a boy’s voice whined, “Abby, c’mon. Wait for me!”

He felt his mouth open, only it was the voice in his mind, “Go home, Thomas! Jeffrey’s waiting for me and I don’t want you tagging along.”

“Abby, please, I don’t wanna go by old Henshaw’s place alone. He’s creepy.”

Dean/Abigail turned around angrily, he/she stamped his/her foot, “Just quit being a big baby and leave me be! And don’t you dare tell mom on me or, I swear, you’ll regret it.”

Ignoring the hurt and fear he/she saw on his/her brother’s face, Dean/Abby turned back around and ran away.

“It was the last time I saw Thomas, alive or dead. I shouldn’t have left him, but I did, and he died.”

He felt a tear begin to trickle from his non-existent eye, and the scene changed. He found himself on the second floor landing of the now familiar house, staring down to room below. Around his neck, he felt the prickle of rough hemp as he swung first one leg, then the other, and perched awkwardly on the banister, his skirts tangled around his feet.

“It was my fault, I was supposed to take care of him. He loved me and believed in me, but I deserted him when he needed me most. Mom and Dad trusted me to watch out for Thomas but I failed them. I didn’t protect him before, at least I could keep him safe in death.”

A moment passed and Dean felt himself falling through the air, the rope tightened around his neck, wrenching his body to a stop. He kicked out helplessly in the air, desperately trying to breathe. His eyes widened as in that last moment, a dark, ugly mass rose from the floor, the stench of sulfur and blood filling his nose. And then it was gone, and once more Dean felt himself afloat in nothingness.

“I was wrong, Thomas wasn’t here. But that thing was and even though they thought the evil dead, they were wrong too. Thomas led mortal retribution to that evil man, stopped that thing from leaving the hell it lives in and rising in our world. But they were too late to stop it forever. So it waits, it takes those that get too close, that are unspoiled, and tries to widen the rift but it doesn’t have enough innocent blood and tortured screams yet. I save those I can, bring them to my haven. But it still grows stronger, and it is so close. And I’ve seen so much torment.”

As if a projector was switched on, Dean saw in his mind’s eye the house as it aged swiftly through the years. He watched as a parade of victims – mostly boys and few girls, all appeared aged within the second decade of life – came into the house, lured and at first lulled into complacency, before being pulled down through the door into a cavernous basement. Chained, tortured, and at first each pulled through an unseen doorway to wink out of existence. Then as the house’s evil grew, a new force began to fight back, also growing stronger and fending off the pull of depravity. It became clear that Abigail was that force, stealing the victims and bringing them to her shelter. The house was a battleground, as if three worlds fought to coexist on the same plane, Abigail’s world and the thing’s, each fighting for dominance in the earthly shell they were trapped within.

“Do you understand?” Her voice entreated. “A few have come, a few that had the knowledge, but not the desire or the bond. It claimed them for their lack.”

Back in the horrific torture chamber, he saw a man dressed in the clothes of the early 20th century sitting in the center of a pentacle drawn on the ground. His voice incanted a series of words in Latin, then he raised one hand and sliced a knife across it with the other. He swung his bleeding hand a semicircle in front of him. Shifting to face the other way, he cut the other hand and repeated the motion so that the circle was complete. He spoke the words once more and waited. From out of nowhere, the dark shape that Dean was becoming familiar with oozed to rise just outside the symbol. It tested the boundaries and pulled back, shifted in its location to try again, and again. The man’s voice rose with the incantation, repeating the phrase over and over. The scene grew in Dean’s mind, he could sense the creature’s malice, smell its stench, and as the spell peaked in a crescendo, he felt the creature’s triumph when it poured over the blood circle and enveloped the helpless man within. Then it pulled back, smearing blood in its wake and the vision was gone.

**

When Dean next became aware of his surroundings, he was lying on the floor in Abigail’s refuge and felt like he’d been dragged down a road by his feet behind a galloping horse. Around him the children continued their activities, and when one walked right through his body, he realized that they couldn’t see him. Now with Abigail’s story told, he saw that all were around the same age as Thomas when he died. Seeing Sam across the room, he yelled at him but wasn’t surprised when the boy didn’t respond.

“They can’t see or hear me, can they?” He asked the ghostly form sitting next to him. Slowly Abigail shook her head, and he saw that their little mind trip had done a number on her as well. Her form was nearly transparent and her face showed utter exhaustion in her dark-rimmed eyes and the turn of her mouth.

“So that’s the way to stop it?” Abigail nodded, “But he was missing something?” She nodded again and then pointedly stared across the room at Sam.

“Aw no, you’re kidding me right?” The ghost stared back and then swung her gaze around the room, at the children, victims trapped between worlds, everywhere and nowhere.

“Yeah, I get it. They aren’t really doing anything more but existing. And there will be more, and sooner or later, it’s going to win. Okay, how do we do this?”

**

Dean paced impatiently downstairs, alternately looking towards the back of the house and then up the stairs. He’d felt the void of the existence of the outside world once Abigail had pushed him out her sanctuary, and the fear had returned, magnified by the setting of the sun which bathed the room in blood red hues. Scratching sounds came from above and Dean looked up to see Abigail floating down the stairs, her hand guiding his brother down. As they reached the bottom, Abigail smiled sadly and hugged Sam, he smiling back trustingly. Then with a final push, Sam was propelled forward and Abigail screamed once before she was suddenly gone. Young Sam began to fade in and out, each ebb, his form becoming more corporeal and he began to age. As he became more solid and approached his real age, Sam’s body began to twist and his face contorted in pain. A wail from Sam, or maybe from above, grew in volume, and then Sam, 19-year old Sam, collapsed into Dean’s waiting arms.

“Hey kiddo, how are you doing there?” Dean wasn’t sure how long it would take, but finally Sam was showing signs of rousing. His eyes fluttered in confusion and suddenly he jerked up, looking anxiously around him. His hand started slapping at his body, as if checking to make sure everything was still there or maybe looking for wounds, Dean wasn’t sure. But he had an idea of what had happened down in that basement before Abigail had managed to pull Sam out of there, and Dean imagined that in all the dream-walking, he was grateful that she’d never shown him what had been done to Sam.

“Easy there, you’re okay. Abby got you out.”

“Abby?”

“Abigail Thorton, the ghost or poltergeist or who knows what she is, thing is she’s on the good guys’ side.”

“Huh, I burned her bones. And not that I’m not grateful, but how the hell did you get here?”

“ I saw. But she’s moved beyond your everyday Casper. And it’s a long story that I’ll tell you later. Now though, we gotta take care of big, dark, and tentacley downstairs. So what ya’ say, we end this ‘moment’ and go gank Mr. Henshaw?”

Dean stood up and offered his hand to Sam, pulling him up when he grabbed hold. Wobbling a bit, Sam held on until he had his balance.

“Oh yeah, the ritual.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, Sam shook his head slowly, “Still got cobwebs on my brain, but I think your Abby gave me the Reader’s Digest version. Pentacle on the ground, blood circle, Latin – sound about right?”

“That’s the gist of it. Then we sit there and wait for the fugly.”

“Think it’ll work?”

“Abby does, and after everything she’s seen, I trust that she knows what she’s talking about.”

“You get that she’s a monster.” Sam looked curiously at his brother. That had been one of their family’s long-standing points of dissension, for Dean and Dad, it was always black and white, if it wasn’t human it was dead. Sam liked to think he could see shades of gray, not that he’d personally ever seen anything supernatural that shouldn’t be ganked, but he was sure that there were examples out there, like maybe this Abby ghost.

Dean nodded, “There’s monsters and there’s monsters. Maybe a difference here.”

Sam snorted, “That makes no sense at all, just admit that just because –”

Dean slapped his brother across the the back of his head as he pushed by, heading towards the kitchen.

“C’mon princess, we’re burning daylight. And seriously, you’re gonna be sitting there arguing philosophy while tall, dark, and gruesome creeps up behind you. Geez, some things never change.”

**

“So why do you think Henshaw hasn’t already shown up?” Sam asked as he put the finishing touches on the pentacle.

“Don’t know, I’m thinking Abby’s got something to do with it. Okay, that’s the last of it, ready?”

After lighting the last candle, Dean stepped within the pentacle, Sam walking in to face him.

“I guess, you think it’ll work?”

“It’s blood magic, strong stuff, and we got the blood of the sacrificial tribute. Which reminds, me – seriously, you’re still a –”

“Shut up Dean, just because you gave up your _innocence_ as soon as you figured out what it was for. Besides, I think the family part’s important too, that’s something else that other hunter was missing, this isn’t a solo trip.”

“Aww, Sammy, that gets me right here.” Dean patted his heart, smirking up at his brother.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch, harsh college boy. Can’t come up with some bigger words with all that education you’re getting?”

Sam punched Dean, and sighed in exasperation. “So you’re going to keep talking or are we going to do this?”

“I just can’t get over the fact that you’re a –”

Cutting his brother off, Sam began the ritual, the Latin words rolling off his tongue easily.

**“Sanguinem innoxium.”** _Blood of the innocent_

Sam held out his hand for Dean to make the first cut, wincing at the sharp pain. Cradling the blood in his palm, he reached around Dean and laid the first half of the circle around his brother. Wrapping a scrap of cotton around the wound, he took the knife and cut across Dean’s palm. Dean completed his half of the circle and as the last drop of blood sealed circle closed, Dean uttered in turn. 

**“Sanguine infectus.”** _Blood of the tainted_

In turn, each repeated their phrase and waited for the summons to be answered. It wasn’t long before they felt the air thicken around them, sulfur and the sickly sweet scent of death assaulting their sense of smell. And in a blink of an eye, Henshaw or whatever monster he had become was at the perimeter of their pentacle, testing its strength. Dean and Sam began the next portion of the ritual, speaking as one.

**” Sanguinem meum sanguinem fratris sanguis.”** _Blood of mine, blood of brother, blood of one_

As Henshaw oozed around them, pressing against their protective barrier, the brothers repeated the phrase, louder with each repetition, looking for signs that it was working. Finally, when their throats were raw and seemed ready to give up, Henshaw pressed forward in a brutal surge, breaking past the barrier, and the light disappeared as the blackness covered and wrapped around them.

For a time nothing moved within the basement. The pentacle’s boundaries had completely disappeared beneath a sheet of black. Then, as if a plug had been pulled, the sheet collapsed around the brothers into a pile of ashes.

“So that was rather anticlimactic.” Dean muttered, brushing ash off his face.

“Feel free to lodge a complaint. I’m just going to chalk it up in the win column and call it a day. Besides this cut’s gonna hurt like a son of bitch for a few weeks. I’ve got a kit in my car. We can stitch each other up.” Groaning, Sam stood up, shaking his head, ashes flying everywhere.

“Watch it, geek boy!” Dean pushed up, doing his own ash shimmy and shake. “Hey, feel that?”

“What?”

“That is the feeling of an old, abandoned house.” He paused and took a sniff, “And that is a moldy old basement. Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

Pulling out a flashlight, Dean clicked it on and joined his brother snuffing out the candles and gathering their supplies. Letting Sam begin his ascent up the stairs, Dean followed close behind.

**

Over the past hour, Sam and Dean had watched from the hood of the Impala as the house released Abigail’s refugees. Sadly, as each child left the house, they grew slowly to what must have been their age when they’d first been taken. For a moment, they stood and gazed around in wonder, then collapsed as if a light had been switched off. They’d checked the first ones out and confirmed that all life signs were gone. The cycle completed a short time after that as the body disintegrated into dust. So they bore witness to the passing of each, hoping that there was a heaven for the lost innocents.

“Well, haven’t seen anyone else in while. Think that’s all of them?” Sam asked as he tied the final stitch off on Dean’s palm .

“No, haven’t seen Jimmy yet. Let’s check it out.” Dean glanced towards his pack on the ground. “Besides, I got a promise to keep.”

Pushing himself off the hood, he grabbed the back pack and slung it over his shoulder. Looking back at Sam where he was still perched on the Impala, seemingly engrossed with packing up the medical kit, he spoke softly, “It’s okay if you want to stay here, I can take care of this myself. You’ve been through a lot.” He smiled at his brother, and couldn’t resist ruffling his hair.

Swinging out and batting Dean’s hands away, Sam took a deep breath, and hopped down. “Nah, I’ll go with you. Henshaw’s gone, Abigail’s not an evil spirit, so it’s all good, right? Besides, we’ve got to find Jimmy, and it’ll go quicker if both of us are looking.”

“Sure Sam. Let’s go.” Wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulder, Dean winced at the pull the reach forced on a bruised socket. “Damn Sammy, you getting even taller?”

Sam laughed and pushed his brother away, “Nope, can’t help it if you’re just short. And it’s **Sam** , Dean. **Sam, S-A-M, one syllable.** ”

“Right, kiddo.” They’d reached the front doors and Dean turned to look at Sam, concern on his face, “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Together, they entered the house, the sound of the rustling wind and chirping crickets following them in. Footprints marred the thick layers of dust, most of them small from the children that had most recently left, and some larger, from Sam and Dean’s earlier exit. Silently, Dean headed up the stairs, Sam close behind.

At the end of the hall, the door stood open, and the brothers walked in Sam close behind Dean. As Dean looked around, the playroom was as he remembered from his first day, only this time he didn’t fear a banshee swooping down in. Beside him, Sam gasped, exclaiming Jimmy’s name as he rushed to the opposite side of the room, Dean at his back.

“Dean, he’s breathing, and he’s got a pulse!”

Dean reached into his backpack ad pulled out a blanket, Thomas’ bones clacking against each other.

“Here, wrap him up in this.” 

As Sam rolled the boy up in the blanket and hoisted him up in his arms, the youngster whimpered and burrowed in closer to Sam. 

“He doesn’t seem to be injured or anything.”

“He’s probably okay, just scared. Let me lay these out and then we’ll get the kid to a hospital.” At Sam’s quizzical look, he explained, “Thomas’ remains, promised Abby if she got me my brother, I’d get her hers.”

After laying them out, as quickly and best as he could in a rough human shape, Dean stood up and began to walk away. Sam pointed past Dean.

“Dean, look.”

Turning back, he saw the bones illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. At first he thought that’s what was shimmering, but then a vague outline began to rise from the floor, gaining form until the boy was clearly defined. His eyes blinked as he looked around the room until a smile lit his features and he rushed to where Abigail stood, her arms outstretched, wrapping around him once he was within her embrace. Tears appeared to fall from her eyes, as she looked over at the Winchesters. Smiling softly, her lips mouthed _thank you_ as the brother and sister shimmered and then vanished from their sight.

~FIN~


End file.
